


In Her Dreams

by landrews



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: Angst and Porn, F/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Point Dume, Sex on a Car
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-03
Updated: 2013-11-03
Packaged: 2017-12-31 07:57:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1029213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/landrews/pseuds/landrews
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the heavens of her ascension, Cordelia waits for Angel to find her. And dreams.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Her Dreams

**Author's Note:**

> Set after the events of Season Three.
> 
> Written in 2002- maybe 2003?
> 
> Notes: Mirrorball is Sarah McLachlan's - originally written for Starlet2367's amusement, this turned into more work than I bargained for. There used to be a longer, much darker version, but that's somewhere in a scrapped computer now, lololol. I never let it hit daylight :-)

 

 

In her dreams, it is always a midnight blue Porsche that cradles her within its leather depths as she hurtles down the canyon road north of Malibu. She passes forbidding drops and hugs the sheltering shale walls of the Santa Monica Mountains on her way to Point Dume. On her way to him.

She feels like maybe she's been driving this road since the first time she touched him, back when all he saw was the one girl in all the world who could possibly overcome his instinct for survival and grant him his longed for death.

Angel, pale and dark, had been standing still within the chaos of the Bronze. The frenetic crowd washed up against him, leaving girls like shells behind when it retreated. He was a prime example of adult male. He exuded strength and sexuality.

She was one of the few brave enough to step right up to him and take his measure. She was tired of high school boys.

But Angel wasn't a man, and Cordelia wasn't living in the real world yet. She certainly wasn't what he wanted. And later, when she did understand, she understood all too well. He was undead and unpredictable and definitely not what she wanted.

Until now.

Now she wants Angel with a depth of yearning, a hunger, that not only makes it hard to breathe, not only makes her ache with the anticipation of feeling his arms close around her in something other than comfort, but that also makes her shiver, afraid for her very life. Afraid for his.

She loves him, his soul, regardless of the flesh in which it comes encased.

He saved her, even though he barely knew her, and then he proceeded to grow on her. Never has anyone in her admittedly short existence made her angrier or hurt her so much. Never has anyone made her smile more, left her so peaceful, or loved her so unconditionally. He believes in the Cordelia that she could be, if she'd just get out of her own damn way.

She gets that now.

The Porsche's tires hum on the PCH and Sarah sings about innocence, and the image of herself in that blue car, on her way to him, makes her belly tighten, and her skin warm and moisture seep from the place that she wants to cradle him the way the car cradles her.

And then she can see him, and in this the dream never changes. He stands facing the stiff ocean breeze, his long leather trench swirling back, hands tucked into his pockets. He never turns when her lights cut across him, but she can see the faint smile that crooks his lips, and she knows just what his eyes would look like if she were standing in front of him. Not dark, like when he smiles before he takes some demon's head off. No, they'd be lit up inside. For her.

He never turns toward the light.

She pulls up beside the GTX and is out in an instant. Now that she knows she wants him, the want is a vicious need clawing at her. She's almost running toward him, through the dark. Angel. Her stomach drops. Angel. And she is walking now. She pulls down on the hem of her favorite black clubbing dress.

He's cursed. He's immortal. He's got his own personal demon in a way no man she ever dated could compete with. There must be plenty of guys out there without a single vice, let alone a list.

But she loves him.

She stands behind him, breathing in the salt air, acclimating her rhythms to the surf below. She waits.

Angel reaches back with one hand and she reaches forward to take it, stepping up beside him. The breeze is cooler than she thought, there at the very edge, and his hand is cold. He twines his fingers between hers, still staring off across the vastness of the ocean, and it comes to her, the way knowledge seems there for the taking in dreams, that he is staring out at time itself, taking stock of where he fits in now, how he can live with the love being offered him.

She leans into him and after a moment he tips his head, and his voice is oh-so-soft. "Cold?"

She nods and he drops her hand, opening his coat to her. He enfolds her in his protection, invites her close, and offers her whatever she may want from him. All this in one small gesture. And she accepts.

She accepts, and slides into his embrace. His false breath warms as the kiss they share deepens until she isn't entirely sure of her physical boundaries.

The stars above seem visible to her, even with her eyes closed, the pounding of the waves is her blood, the sharp scent his alone, the ground she stands on solid beneath her feet as her hands follow the roll of the muscles in his back.

Gripping her upper arms to keep her from questing after him, Angel draws back. And even though she knows she's dreaming, Cordelia cries out at the separation every time.

"Cordelia," he says, his voice breaking on that one word. "I want this… I just don't-" He winces, and she knows how he feels, it's a physical hurt, this want.

Something she can only describe as determination slams her back to the firmament. Here she stands, in the dark, on a cold cliffside, small rocks digging into the thin soles of her Jimmy Choos, and the brutally hot man who loves her can't because he fucked up two hundred and fifty years ago, and is technically undead. She isn't going to take it anymore.

"Look, Angel…"

He swims up from somewhere inside himself, and locks onto her, onto the steel she can hear in her own voice, onto the strength that's welling up from the part of her that so desperately wants to bed him and kill the sexual tension that's making life so hard to live right now. She wants to claim some part of him as hers and she doesn't really care, just now, which part.

"I love you. But we're not talking perfect happiness here. How can we?" She always feels commanding here, in control. She tosses her head like she's still Queen C, like she still knows everything worth knowing.

"You are a vampire with a teenage son. I'm not sure when my next little demon attribute is gonna show up. And we're in a public place."

He grins at that, and she can't help but kiss him. Damn, he makes her spin. What had she been doing with Groo?

She moves her hand down to caress him, a hot thrill spiraling in her at the hardness he presses into her hand. He shifts, pulling her tight against him, encouraging her to spread her legs, press her throbbing clit against his thigh. He nibbles on her neck.

Oh, yeah… Groo wouldn't kill her, no matter how much she loved him. She groans.

"Angel," she whispers, "I'm not going to… you know, tonight. Here."

He has both his hands on her bottom, and… undulates… in a way that has her gasping. He chuckles at her response and kisses her temple before plundering her mouth, and it's all she can do to stay upright. He makes her feel like living water, flowing to his touch.

He strokes her back as he kisses her, unzips her dress, pulls her in to him and trails long fingers down her throat, slides her loose top off her shoulders. She craves the feel of his skin, and breaks the kiss to linger on his throat. The sweet spiciness that explodes on her tongue makes her dizzy. She suckles.

Angel groans and laughs. He says her name like a prayer and reclaims her mouth. Of their own accord, her hands fist in the fabric separating them.

Eventually he brings her down, slows the pace, and she isn't surprised to find her breasts released from bondage, his shirt fluttering against her as he gently rubs his thumbs across her nipples. His belt and top button lay open beneath her hands.

She lets her head fall back, and he slides his arms around her, curls over her so his bare chest just brushes. It makes her want his weight on her. He places butterfly kisses along her collarbone.

An engine growls toward them and Angel lifts his head. Every muscle in him tenses and the prey in her quivers. He hugs her tight to him, tucking her head under his chin. Cordy burrows her arms beneath his shirt. The tail of his coat lies tangled between their legs.

The car never slows, its headlights just a flash and a reminder.

"No perfect moment here," she whispers, hoping perhaps he's thinking the same thing. She's past the point of caring about her good intentions now. Angel is lean and hard and having him as hers, claiming him. Well, suddenly right now seems to be the perfect opportunity.

"No," he says. "No perfect moment. You're cold, right? And this is too exposed." He sounds very sure, and her heart beats faster.

He runs a hand across her head, tugs gently on her hair until she's looking up at him. His eyes tell her all she needs to know. "I'd be much too worried," he says, in a tone so low, so filled with desire, that her chest implodes with tenderness. God. She really loves him.

She kisses him, follows the line of his lips. He trembles and presses into her, his tongue taking possession of her mouth. He thrusts suggestively, and sends heat to all the best parts of her. She lets her pelvis tilt and roll against the slow grind of his rigid cock against her belly.

Angel sweeps her up and strides across the uneven ground, trailing pent-up power in his wake. Cordy strokes his neck. Even in the dream she is always surprised that he picks the Porsche, but on waking she wonders at the thoughts buried in her mind.

He sets her down just long enough to start it up, set the heat blasting, and flip the radio on. The CD player kicks Mirrorball on, and Sarah resumes her mourning… _I don't know how to let go of you._

His eyes find her arms crossed over her chest, her dress riding low on her hips. With a single burning look he asks and she answers, baring her breasts for his pleasure. His fingertips are wind blown sea oats come to rest on her. She can feel every roughened ridge that rides the softness of his hand as he cups her.

With passionate intensity he worships her, with hands and mouth and tongue, until her breasts feel heavy, her nipples ache. She wants more. Always, she wants more.

He pulls away to remove his coat and sling it over the hood. Placing his hands on her hips, Angel kisses her with a gravity that sets her heart to skittering. He lifts her onto the warm hood, forcing her back as he leans into her. His bulk and the dream keep her from sliding off.

Standing up, he runs a hand between her breasts, splays his fingers across her belly, touches her like he knows her already. He moves on to her thighs, drawing his nails along her lightly, hovering where she needs his touch, teasing until she trembles. The reward is firm pressure on her pubic bone, fingers on her clit.

She revels in the warmth vibrating through the hood beneath her, the cool air dousing her breasts and belly, the press of his hand… and now, oh shit, he's falling into her. He laps at her. She pulls her legs up so she can wrap herself closer to him, gasps when he stops to tear her panties, his cool fingers so shocking against her heat so that she jerks against him and he laughs.

Cold, damp air rushes in upon her. The sound of the surf comes on like someone's turned the volume up, and the rushing hiss of passing traffic… and then his warmth again, because he is warm, his tongue hot as he tastes her. He's all there is in the night.

And, always, Cordy wants him.

She yanks on his hair, plucks at the shoulders of his shirt. It rides up his back under her frantic pull. She urges him up because she needs him now, needs him hard and deep. He bites her clit gently in reproach, and she startles, arching, head thrown back as the sensation pours into her.

"Need me?" he says, replacing his mouth with his deft touch again. He fills her with her fingers and she writhes.

Making her wait, throbbing from his ardent torture, Angel kisses his way up by inches to her mouth. Cool, smooth skin, the scrape of his face, sensuous rub of chest hair, the rougher texture if his shirt, the heavy folds of his slacks under the insteps of her feet. All incite her.

He covers her and she almost sobs, feeling the tears well up now that he is finally here. He gives her the weight she needs to keep from flying right off the dizzy spin of Earth. He saves her. Grounds her.

Pressed against her, he rocks slightly, lets her know how much and how hard he desires her. Yeah, he's hot all right. Heated up in all the right places. He waits.

Sarah wails into the silence between them… _I won't fear love._

"Angel." Never has she heard such longing in a voice as she hears now in her own. Not until he speaks.

"Cordelia." The pain there saddens her. His voice is whisper soft, but steady. Steady as her heartbeat, as her nerves now that this moment is upon them. He's worried, she's cold, and they're on the hood of a Porsche parked off the PCH. No happiness.

And yet. Always, the small ripple of fear. 

Always, the crushing waves of need, heat, want coursing in her blood.

Always there is Angel, on his elbows, poised right at the very edge of her. 

He strokes her cheeks, chases her tears with his thumbs, and kisses her chastely. He is silent, asking for more, more than just her body, as he needlessly kindles the flame. It rages through her. Her hips surge up to claim him as he drives into her.

She opens, arching up to take him. With a sharp intake of breath and an open mouth, he surrenders. He brushes his lips against her ear, buries his face in that sweet spot between her shoulder and her neck. She enfolds Angel in her protection, invites him to stay, and offers him whatever he may want from her. All this in one small gesture. And he accepts.

Angel accepts, and she wakes, and in this the dream never changes.

She always wakes within that moment, into the unbearable brightness of her current existence. Always at this point of not fulfillment. Wet and hungry for him. Still feeling him inside her, pressing her into the purring Porsche beneath.

And always, Sarah singing… _You're in the arms of the angel, may you find some comfort here._

She thinks of him, sitting in total stillness in the silent darkness of his room and knows he's listening. Can he hear her heart beating for him?

She whispers his name like a prayer, and prays he'll come for her soon.

 

 


End file.
